


what comes is better than what came before

by singleword



Category: V for Vendetta (2005)
Genre: F/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-05
Updated: 2006-05-05
Packaged: 2020-01-23 10:04:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18547567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singleword/pseuds/singleword
Summary: He never would have done what she wishes he had.[Evey's imagination gets away from her.]





	what comes is better than what came before

She dreams of the shadows in him, of the darkness in his arms. She remembers his hold on the back of her neck, and she locks one hand there in inaccurate re-creation when she -

He never would have done what she wishes he had. Too brave, too bright, he was, all cold mask and cool leather fingertips. The shadows he cast, like moonlight, have no depth, yet still she drowns in them. She struggles to breathe, head tilted back against the wall, eyes closed teeth bared hand clenched so hard on her own neck she'll probably leave bruises. The air tastes of copper blood, gunpowder and betrayal. She misses, she wishes, she dreams so fiercely it's almost real, and lost in midnights she can feel his weight on her, pressing her back against rough stone the colour of which she's forgotten. She can feel the curve of the mask against her cheek, the curves of his smile pressing into the side of her neck. His hands slide too smooth over her clothes, his fingertips are impossibly deft on the buttons of her white shirt. His breathing echoes. Hers is far too loud. Shakespeare nonsense and wretched poetries struggle for voice as one broad hand spans her hip and her own hands - smaller of course, but nothing weak about them now - clench around his arms, tangle the too soft hair that falls across broad shoulders. He flicks free a button. So neat. So precise. Her hips flinch at the cool touch of leather on skin and the gloves drag, sliding denim over too sharp bones, and her hands stammer down his back. Her forehead is pressed into the cradle of his neck and her eyes are shut so tight, his left hand is hard on the back of her neck and his right is - _right_ \- leather too smooth, it's almost frictionless and she sobs, twisting herself and lines of poems and songs, held fast and trapped. His breath on her bare skin is searing, the mask bruise sharp, his one hand holding her together and his other ripping her apart and she wants to say something, she wants to explain, wants anything but this blindness all wrapped up in him, the burn in the muscles of her thighs as she struggles to stand, fights for breath in the thick hot scent of him in the sliver of skin she can feel between the mask and his collar. She holds two hands to his shoulders, finds the armour's weakness and splits it with teeth. He makes some sound, says something she doesn't understand, and his scars are uneven under her tongue as he - as she - as he breaks her and her pieces fall, caught only by the darkness and the stone, his cloak wrapped around her too warm and the wall grazing the curve of her spine.

The hand on her neck holds her still, holds her steady, and gradually the fingers unclench.


End file.
